


In the Heat of the Moment

by caesia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 20:11:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caesia/pseuds/caesia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa intends to win the game of thrones, even if it means seducing the Lord Commander.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Heat of the Moment

Sansa turns to the side and again adjusts the embroidery along the neckline of her gown. It is new, made specially for her great-uncle’s visit from wool bleached and dyed deep cerulean. Navy waves chase dark grey wolves with eyes beaded in silver across the waistband and down the train. Satisfied that the neckline dips just low enough to entice, Sansa turns to her sister, who fiddles impatiently with the materials that cover the desk at the back of her solar.

“Will you help me with my necklace, Arya?” With alacrity, her sister jumps from the carved pine chair and crosses the room.

“Finally, you’re almost ready,” she complains, threading the delicate hook through its eye at the nape of Sansa’s neck. The Blackfish had given it to his flame-haired niece at his last visit. Silver scales form a gleaming circle just above the notch in her collarbone, each piece hammered individually to shape and tipped by a deep blue cabochon. “Can we go now?” Arya asks as Sansa sweeps her long hair down her back.

She nods, but before she can rise to leave, Maddy enters the solar.

“Begging your pardon, my lady,” the maid curtseys, “Is there anything else you’ll need tonight? Otherwise I’ll just be preparin’ your bedthings and I’ll see myself to the feast.”

“That will be fine, Maddy. But please, don’t kindle a fire in my chamber this evening. It’s been too hot to sleep these two nights past.”

With another curtsey, Maddy bustles through the door to Sansa’s solar. Arya motions toward the door impatiently. “Now?”

The two sisters walk to the Great Hall side by side, which only serves to highlight their differences. Sansa glides elegantly, _regally_ , one might say, if the regent Lady of Winterfell would abide any talk that might hint at another Northern kingdom. She keeps her shoulders back and her neck long, eyes slightly lidded in an expression of relaxed control. In contrast, Arya glances back and forth, taking in every darkened niche and corner, though the corridors of Winterfell are unlikely to hide faceless men as the alleys of Braavos did. She wears a vest of elaborately tooled and oiled leather over her dress of grey wool, and a black cloak trimmed in sable to match her hair.

At the doors outside the feast, they meet Jon and Rickon. The Lord Commander appears to be teaching his young cousin a piece of footwork while they wait for the ladies, stepping and slashing an invisible sword in demonstration. The move brings him face to face with Sansa.

Jon smiles sheepishly and bends to kiss her hand. “Lady Sansa.” For an instant, his eyes wander up her dress, and he looks like he might say more. Then he straightens and turns to her sister. “Lady Arya,” he greets similarly, but instead of kissing her hand as he bows, he pokes her in the stomach.

Sansa takes her little brother’s arm and prepares to enter the hall while Jon and Arya line up behind them, bickering happily. Checking that Rickon’s hair is in place and his clothes are straight, she signals the guards to open the doors.

The number of guests who have made their way to Winterfell to recognize Lord Stark’s tenth nameday would have overwhelmed Sansa once, but now she maintains a serene expression as she processes down the aisle. It is strange to think that in only a year’s time, Rickon will be the same age she’d been when she left the North for the first time.

Brynden Tully’s arrival fills the last place at the high table. Sansa seats him next to Rickon, who will love the old knight’s stories, and she settles herself on her brother’s other side, between him and Arya. Then the first course is served, and the night’s merriment begins.

The arrival of springtide has certainly increased the number of guests able to visit the Stark seat, but the bounty of Winterfell’s gardens and kitchens attracts travellers no matter the season. Sansa had negotiated fiercely with Queen Daenerys for resources to rebuild the castle, using her status as Jon’s cousin and Tyrion’s former wife to her every advantage, and she notes with pride every new dish brought out to the long tables.

As the hour grows later, the hall grows ever louder as food and drink make the guests more raucous. After maple pudding studded with cinnamon-coated raisins has been served, the Umbers approach Rickon, holding out a full mug of foaming ale so that they can be the first to toast with their lord. Sansa nods at her younger brother and shares an amused look with Jon as Rickon gulps the whole thing down, then belches loudly. The Greatjon gives a cheer, which echoes down across the lower tables.

“Come, brother,” Arya says, standing up. “To bed with you. After that drink, you’ll be sleeping with your face on your plate if we don’t get you upstairs.” Rickon follows her agreeably enough, knowing that he has plenty of opportunities to stay up late in the month ahead.

Once the Mormont girls turn in, Sansa feels she’s waited long enough. She folds her napkin and sets it next to her empty wine goblet.

“Uncle, it is truly a pleasure to have you here. I look forward to your company and your counsel, but now I fear I am rather tired.”

“I bid you goodnight, sweetling,” Ser Brynden replies, kissing her hand affectionately.

Sansa rises from her chair, smoothing the front of her gown, and begins to walk around the table. As Jon sees her approach, he drains his ale and stands.

“Let me walk you to your chambers, Lady Sansa,” he requests. He doesn’t know it, but she’s been counting on Jon’s unwillingness to let her retire on her own. She takes his arm and allows herself a smile.

 

Sansa’s fingers squeeze his arm gently as they climb the stairs, and Jon swallows. His reunion with Arya had been everything he’d dreamed of: ebullient embraces, long conversations by the fire as they told each other their adventures, sparring in the yard. She is still his sister, no matter who his parents were, and the thought of her brings a smile to his face as he goes about his business as commander at the Wall. Seeing Sansa again, on the other hand, still has him confused. She looks so like her mother, tall and graceful, with that bright Tully hair, that a glimpse of her striding down the hall still makes him feel a young boy. But he’s watched her manage Winterfell, guiding bannermen and workmen with a charming smile and a firm command. She’s gentled Rickon’s wildness, too, and he can easily imagine her the mother of her own brood.

She’s grown into a woman, a _lady_ , and the thought of her makes him sit straighter and remember his courtesies, even when she’s far away. Then again, the sight of her makes his breath catch in his throat. When she dresses for dinner, or even when she greets him at the gate of the castle, her fair skin glowing like the surface of a pearl and her dresses cut to complement the high curve of her breasts, he has difficulty keeping his eyes from tracing her figure. She is most definitely not his sister, though he still feels a stab of shame whenever Daenerys writes that he should take a wife and he sees her face, creamy skin contrasting with a Targaryen cloak, before he pens yet another refusal.

He stops outside her door. Sometimes, he joins her in her solar of an evening, to share stories and strategies and plans for Rickon and Winterfell, but tonight she seems content to let him kiss her cheek goodnight and withdraw. Jon presses his lips chastely to her smooth skin and lets her go.

In his guestroom, one of the finest in the castle since he’ll spend two months or more visiting his family, he pours himself another half-ration of ale and sits moodily by the window, scratching behind Ghost’s ears. It feels as though only a few minutes have gone by when he hears a knock on his door, though his mug is mostly empty. Frowning, he crosses the room to find Sansa standing in the hallway.

“Jon. You’re still awake?”

“Yes,” he answers. She’s wrapped herself in a thick fur, but he can see the hem of her dressing gown peeking out beneath it. On her feet, she wears thin satin slippers.

“The fire’s gone out in my bedchamber. I think my maid may have forgotten to kindle it, with all the excitement of the feast, and she’ll be sleeping sound now. Would you mind…”

“Of course, I’ll come help you.” Jon glances backward, but Ghost has already curled up in front of his own fireplace. He shuts the door behind him.

“Why didn’t you take your mother’s old chambers when you returned to Winterfell?” As soon as the question is out of his mouth, Jon cringes at his inept choice of topic. Catelyn Stark has never set well between them, and never would.

But Sansa answers as if it doesn’t bother her that he’s raised the spectre of her lady mother. “They’re so far from Rickon’s. At least this way we’re on the same floor.” She smiles, teasing him. “And though I may need a fire in my room to sleep, I’m not nearly as susceptible to cold as my mother was. Her chambers were always uncomfortably warm.”

The image of Sansa, sweating and lifting her hem slightly as she embroidered in her mother’s solar, fills Jon’s mind. He blinks hard to clear it. Then they are outside her door once again.

Embers glow merrily in the grate in her solar, but he can see through the door that the fireplace within her bedchamber is black and cold. He picks up the small iron shovel next to the chimney and scoops up a red coal, carrying it carefully past her bed to lay it among the ashes. Focusing on his task and not his proximity to the place his beautiful cousin sleeps, he adds some kindling and a small log and blows gently until the coal begins to spread its light and heat. Then he turns to give Sansa a reassuring smile.

 

While Jon kneels next to the fire, Sansa gathers her courage. _You’ve played this game before_ , she reminds herself, slipping her heavy fur off her shoulders. Littlefinger’s words echo in her mind like bells across a harbor. _Win his approval. Win his boyish heart._

It will be best for all of them. Jon has no desire to leave the North, she knows, and she _can’t_ leave Winterfell again, or see it ruled by a strange lord while Rickon grows to manhood. The Queen needs an heir, which means Jon must marry, whether he wants to or not. Sansa trusts Jon’s honor. If he beds her, even just the once, he’ll choose her when the time comes.

Her seduction is kindly meant, on both sides. Perhaps, if she is lucky, his hands will grope her flesh less painfully than Harry’s had, perhaps he’ll lay atop her carefully instead of smothering and pressing and rutting fast as he can. _Perhaps a man’s heart is easier to win than a boy's._ Delaying no longer, Sansa unties her dressing gown and lets it fall to the floor.

Light flares through the chamber as Jon gets the log to catch. He stands, looking pleased at his success. Then he sees her.

The fire is small, but growing, and moonlight shines through the window of her room. Her body is entirely bare to him, neck to toes. She fights to keep still, her hands relaxed at her sides, though she can feel her nipples stiffen under his gaze. His grey eyes appear black, reflecting the red glint of the flames.

“Sansa. What are you…what are you doing?”

“Please, Jon,” she begins, and to her surprise her voice sounds perfect, soft and husky and pleading. The stakes are too high to let her nerves get the best of her. She takes a small step forward, letting her hips sway slightly to the side. A tendril of hair falls across her neck. “Please. I’m so lonely here, taking care of Rickon and Arya with no one to look after me. I need you.”

“No, Sansa. You’ll get married someday, soon if you wish, and you’ll have a husband to take care of you.” His voice is pained as he protests, but he can't seem to tear his eyes away from her.

Another step. “Who shall I marry? I’m not a maid,” here her voice cracked, just a little, just enough, “and anyone who seeks my hand is only interested in Winterfell. Am I to let a stranger settle here and serve as Rickon’s regent for six long years?”

Jon looks pained for her sake now, not his own. “I won’t dishonor you like this. You’ve been treated ill, in the past, but that doesn’t mean you must always be treated so.”

“You would treat me well.” On more step, ansd she’s right in front of him, so close she can almost feel his breath on her naked skin. “I trust you, Jon. Please, make me feel safe.”

His face is grave, but he lifts a hand. Just before he touches her, Sansa braces herself for a squeeze, a pinch. Instead, his finger grazes her forehead, her cheekbone, her neck as he strokes the fallen strand of hair. “You are safe, Sansa. Safe, and protected, and loved.”

The instant before his lips touch hers, a thrill of victory washes over her. She’d expected him to make protest on account of his vows, but perhaps he’s broken them before, if his kiss is anything to judge by. His mouth is soft, for all it’s surrounded by his thick beard, and the longer his lips move tenderly across hers, the longer she wants it to continue. Then his hands circle her waist, and she gasps.

It isn’t like the pressing wetness of Littlefinger’s kisses, which made her count the seconds until she could pull away, stomach churning. Nor does it make her think of Harry, choking her with his insistent mouth. Jon licks sweetly at her mouth, then pulls her bottom lip between his teeth and slowly releases it, nipping gently. His mouth stays gentle, even as he kisses her more deeply, tilting his head and running a hand up her back to cradle her neck.

When they break apart, Sansa’s heart is pounding against her chest. Fighting the hazy pleasure that fogged her mind while they kissed, she tries to focus on her mission. She takes Jon’s hand from her waist and slides it up to cup her breast, which rises and falls with each panting breath she takes.

Jon groans, and then he’s kissing her again, but his lips move down her jaw to her neck, and then lower, until they join his hand. He tastes the skin there with long strokes of his tongue, even taking the tip of her breast into his mouth and sucking. Sansa doesn’t have to fake her whimper of pleasure.

The sound seems to break him out of a trance. Before he can reconsider, Sansa reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls. After she’s maneuvered it over his head and onto the floor, she can see from his face that he has no intentions of stopping.

She answers the excitement in his eyes with encouragement of her own. “Come to bed, Jon.”

 

Sharing a bed with Sansa feels like a dream. Her skin is just as soft as it looks above the neckline of her gowns, and her curves just as inviting. Still, Jon can tell she hasn’t been treated well. His every touch elicits a response: a gasp, a sigh, his whispered name. Yet she is continually reaching for his breeches, obviously confused that he’s not removed them and begun to work on his own pleasure. He gentles his fingers and lips even more, tracing and kissing the faint blue veins that are visible through the pale skin of her breasts. She squirms, her frustration getting the best of her.

“Please, Jon, I’m ready for you. You don’t have to wait.”

He runs a hand down her belly to her center, making her shiver. “Aye, you’re warm and wet enough. But we have time.” He strokes his fingers through her damp curls to find her most sensitive spot, and her hips jump sharply.

“Jon!” she practically shouts.

“That’s it, sweet girl. I’m here to take care of you, remember?” He swears to himself then that she’ll find her pleasure as many times as he can manage it.

She gasps and keens, rocking against his knee between her legs, or his fingers caressing her core. He lets her explore his back, his chest, even his face as he kisses and touches her, but whenever she reaches below his navel he moves her hands away. He’s hard, of course, has been painfully so since his hands first touched her bare skin, and his cock presses hot against her thigh. But he can delay his peak, for her sake.

By the time he does enter her, she’s wrung out, exhausted from his attentions. Still, she sighs happily once he’s inside her, and her legs wrap around his hips to hold him close. He’s overstimulated from the sight of her coming apart and the affectionate words she coos into his ear as he mouths her neck. He comes quickly, but she looks so sated that he doesn’t apologize. Instead he gathers her into his arms and pulls a blanket over them both.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

 

The next day, Arya seeks her out after breakfast.

“I stopped by Jon’s solar last night, to ask him about settlements in the Gift. He wasn’t there.”

“Perhaps he was still at the feast,” Sansa suggests evenly.

“That’s what I thought at first. But when I came back to the hall. Uncle Brynden said he walked you to your chambers.”

“You must have just missed him, then.”

Arya shoots her a disgusted look. “I’m not a fool. I waited up with Ghost for more than half an hour before I went to bed. And this morning, I saw him coming down the west stairs, before it was light.”

“Do go on.” If Arya had something to say, best to let her get it out of her system.

“I asked him where he’d been. He said you needed help kindling a fire last night, so he went to help you and then he fell asleep in your solar.”

“And you don’t believe him?”

Her sister rolls her eyes with such scorn Sansa considers warning her against getting her face stuck that way. “I’ve seen you light dozens, maybe hundreds of fires by yourself, when we didn’t have enough staff at the castle, or when you’ve gone to soothe Rickon at night. You didn’t need his help for that.”

Finally, Sansa smiles. “Perhaps not. But I asked him for it, and he freely gave it.”

“This isn’t a game, Sansa. This is Jon. Our brother.”

She shakes her head. “Our cousin,” Sansa corrects. “And it’s all a game, Arya. All of it.”

Now Arya was truly angry. “Is this about the Iron Throne? You still want to marry your precious prince, only now it’s Jon instead of Joffrey?”

 _Someone must sit the throne after Daenerys. Why not our son, raised in the North, a true Stark?_ Sansa muses, but she keeps those thoughts to herself. “I have no desire to marry, prince or not. It’s Jon who will be ordered to take a bride.”

“And seducing him is supposed to make him choose you.”

 _A woman’s best weapon is between her legs_. “Perhaps he already means to choose me, if he’s willing to be seduced.”

Arya’s scowl doesn’t fade, so Sansa takes a different tactic. “I don’t mean to hurt him, Arya. Would Jon be happy marrying a southron girl and moving to King’s Landing? I want him here, with our family, just as you do.”

This earns a sharp nod. “Fine. But I don’t agree with what you’ve done.”

 _Not all of us have swords to fight with_ , Sansa reflects as she watches her sister stalk away. But the memory of Jon’s gentle mouth and hands lingers. He’d whispered such sweet things, holding her as she fell asleep, kissing her as he left before sunrise. Perhaps she won’t always have to play the game alone. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave feedback, either here or on [tumblr](http://www.caesiamusa.tumblr.com).


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